


Flowers

by rhythmicroman



Category: Original Work
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Flowers, Gay, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), Romance, Short, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Tattoos, ask to tag ig, yes that counts shut up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 06:36:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12126654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmicroman/pseuds/rhythmicroman
Summary: There are flowers painted on his skin, perfectly alive and never wilting, and everyone he passes only spares him a second glance to see the flowers his flesh holds.





	Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> because im gay

There are flowers painted on his skin, perfectly alive and never wilting, and everyone he passes only spares him a second glance to see the flowers his flesh holds.

Most of them are coloured in – pink and purple, curling around his wrists and elbows, blooming big between the other shapes painted on his chest. But others are plain and empty, and sometimes he colours them in himself, much less permanent and much messier, hands shaking no matter how hard he tries to keep them still.

He writes names in the petals – names of flowers, at first, then bugs, and then the pretty boy who glances more than twice and sits down to talk. His name makes the flower feel bigger and brighter. He goes over that name every time, bright blue in contrast to the pink blurs, and even when the rest of the flower is filled his name sticks out like a signature on a canvas.

The boy holds his hand gently, thumb tracing the flowers that curl around his fingers – and then he looks up, and smiles, and softly says “there’s me”, as his fingertips graze up to his forearm and rub swirls around the bright blue ink. “There’s you”, he replies, and reaches up to touch the pretty boy’s arm, his own name written there shakily in a carefully-drawn replica of his own flower, bright red marker against papery skin.

The ink of pretty-boy’s name never smudges, as he’s careful to preserve it – even as they grow older, and his hands shake even more, he’s still carefully writing that name in loopy cursive on his forearm, tongue out in concentration.

Only when the flowers on his skin finally wilt, and he’s buried in fresh soil, does the blue writing fade – and only then does a beautiful blue flower, tangled in thorns and speckled with frost, rise from the earth to greet the sun.


End file.
